


Sunshine

by Erulisse17



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Not Canon Compliant, Science Babies, but i love it anyway, end of season 1, fitz fights his coma to get to jemma, totally canon-balled
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 06:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12835563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erulisse17/pseuds/Erulisse17
Summary: Sometimes he dreams he's floating, weightless in the air. Water? He likes it. It feels peaceful, serene. He could stay here forever. Maybe he will. Then he's suddenly pulled away. Frantically, forcefully. Away from something important. He shouldn't leave it. There's something important inside... An S-word. Fitz's thoughts after the events of the first season finale.





	1. You Are My Sunshine

_You are my sunshine,_

_My only sunshine._

_You make me happy_

_When skies are grey._

_(Best read with the[Civil Wars' version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHa71o7qPE4) of "You Are My Sunshine" _ _playing in the background)_  

 

Sometimes he dreams he's floating, weightless in the air.

Water?

He can feel plastic by his nose. Maybe he's using a nose clip like his mum forced him to back when he was five and in swimming lessons. Always hated that thing. And swimming. The other boys were bigger, faster, splashing him, shoving him under. But not now. Now he's by himself, quiet.

He likes floating. It feels peaceful, serene. He could stay here forever. Maybe he will.

Then something pulls him away. Frantically, forcefully. Away from...

He frowns. Away from something. Something important. He shouldn't leave it. There's something important inside...

A voice echoes around him. _You wash up on a deserted island alone. Sitting on the sand is a box. What is in that box?_

Well, that would really depend on the size of the box. Size only eliminates some of the infinite possibilities, but at least it's a start. How big is the box?

The voice sounds slightly annoyed. _Just say the first thing that comes to mind._

He can see it now. It's a big box, sitting in the sand. And inside is...

An S-word.

Something bright, warm. Comforting. Light?

_Sun._

Yes.

No.

_"Sun; The star which is the central body around which planets revolve. Provides the light and energy necessary to sustain life."_

Yes.

Wait, the sun burns. Hurts. He sees a man with a scarred face and glowing eye. No.

The box has the gentle version of the sun. Warmth without scorching, light without burning.

Suddenly he knew what was in the box.

Sunshine.


	2. You'll Never Know Dear

_You’ll never know, dear_

_How much I love you_

_Please don’t take my sunshine away_

 

Sometimes he dreams he’s looking for something.

There are hundreds of doors all around him, but each one he opens is wrong.

Some are empty rooms. Some are filled with lightning. One has a pulsing black cloud that frightens him. Another is filled with sky and a rushing wind that makes him angry and terrified. Like the wind took something from him.

There is one door that’s different from the others. It’s not a normal door with a knob, but looks like a blast door, with a huge top that drops to the ground and refuses to move. He tries to open it now and again, but it’s too heavy. Lifting it on his own is impossible.

He goes back to the other doors. He is delighted to find one that has monkeys. He turns around to tell someone, but no one is there. When he turns back, the monkeys are gone too.

Twice cheated, he tries to really look at the doors, to see which one has the thing he lost.

(Or is he lost?)

Suddenly, he hears something. The sound is distant, muffled. But he feels like it’s calling for him. He rushes down the endless hallway of doors, listening, straining to find that door that has what he wants.

There! That one!

He throws it open to find jewels. Confused, he looks around. There are rubies and sapphires and emeralds and others he can’t name, stacked up to the ceiling. This can’t be what he wants. He starts to leave.

But the door is gone.

Puzzled, he sits and plays with the colored stones, sure that something important must be here. He tries to look inside one of them.

Nothing. He throws it across the room. There’s nothing here but…

Gems.

Gem.

Yes! _Gem!_

He knows it’s important that he found the right word. (Almost right?) But he can’t remember why. He picks one up anyway (brownish green, with flecks in it), because it reminds him of something beautiful.

Sturdy.

Smooth.

Precious.


	3. I Dreamed I Held You In My Arms

_The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping,_

_I dreamed I held you in my arms…_

 

Sometimes he dreams he hears things.

“He always hates it when his curls get tangled.” A tender voice explains as fingers run gently through his hair. “Told me he can’t stand brushes and combs because they always make everything worse. Used to ask me to-” She cuts off her words with a sound that might have been a whimper.

“Coffee anyone?” The voice asks tightly, then rapid steps get fainter.

“It’s getting worse.” This voice is different. It sounds… firm, in control. Strong.

A soft masculine tone answers. “The doctors say that there’s no change-”

“Not _him_. Her.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“Give her something to do. Something besides sitting here.”

A few footfalls, then yet another voice responds, “She won’t leave.”

He thinks this new voice is pretty, then wonders how the audial qualities of a voice correspond to the facial features. Not that he would know. He’s engineering. She’s biochem.

(Who’s biochem?)

The new voice continues. “I can barely get her to take bathroom breaks. And forget about eating. I feel like a mother bird, stuffing food into a nestling as soon as she opens her mouth.” The girl pauses. “Okay, that sounded less gross in my head.”

“Skye’s right.” The man agreed. “Sending her away would only be cruel. And who knows? Maybe she’s helping.”

(Skye? Did he know a Skye? He remembers shouting at the rushing wind against a blue sky. Screaming something at it. Gem? J-)

“ _Did you know that the ‘jyuh’ sound is the youngest phoneme in our language?” A perky voice (had he heard this voice before?) interrupted his thoughts._

“ _Absolutely fascinatin’.” (Was that his voice? It sounded sarcastic. He felt like he was probably sarcastic.)_

“ _Oh it is! I finished my report on the induction of transcriptional supercoiling early, so I found a book on the Phonological History of the English Language in the library and picked it up for some light reading-”_

“ _Of course you did. Pure Hermione you are.”_

“ _Don’t you give me that. I know for a fact that you didn’t sleep last night because you were working on submitting your latest designs to Professor Harrison. Who’s the Hermione now?”_

“ _Now ‘ow the ‘ell would you know that, then?”_

“ _Your accent always gets much thicker when you’re tired.”_

“ _Now tha’s jus’ not-”_

“ _And you get grumpier. Anyway, there’s this fascinating portion on how the Scottish Highland English is slightly different from the variety spoken in the Lowlands in that it is more phonologically, grammatically, and lexically influenced by a Gaelic substratum. Anyway, before I forget, I made-”_

“ _Ach, it’s back to the Scots, then, aye? Always comes round to us in the end!”_

“ _Fitz, I made up the cot in the back of the lab so you could have a bit of a lie-down. You look exhausted.”_

“ _Oh. Well I don’ need it. And if I did go have a wee kip, it’d only be so I don’ hurt your feelings.”_

_He remembered a dazzling smile aimed his direction._

“ _Of course, Fitz.”_

_(Fitz, was that his name?)_

“ _Fitz…”_

_(It sounded incomplete, somehow.)_

“Fitz.”

(Like it was only half a name.)

“Come back, Fitz. Come back to me. Please…”

(It sounded… lonely.)


	4. Chapter 4

… _ When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken _

_ So I hung my head and I cried. _

 

Sometimes he dreams he hears crying.

Not loud, agonized weeping, but soft, muffled cries. Heartbreaking sobs.

(Whose heart is breaking? His?)

The sounds seem to come from his right, so when he finds the hallway of doors again, he keeps picking the right-hand ones.

At first, all the rooms are empty. He slams one closed in frustration, then listens for the cries again.

The next door isn’t empty. It’s a laboratory.

No. It’s half a laboratory.

(How can it be half a laboratory?)

He shakes his head and closes the door.

When he opens the next one, it’s a different lab (but it also feels like it’s missing half). This has glass doors in front of it.

He touches the doors hesitantly. This is where he fixed things. (Together)

(Together with who?)

( _ ‘Whom.’ _ The perky voice corrected him)

Good things happened here. Bad things too.

He feels the glass against his back and an overwhelming sense of dread. He looks through the glass and sees something drop out of sight into the air, taking something in his chest with it. He screams, pulling at the doors.

“ _ NO! IT WORKED! J-” _

(What worked?)

Suddenly he’s back in the hallway. The sobbing is back too.

He wants it to stop. He wants to find whoever is crying and make them (her?) happy again.

The next door he opens hesitantly. It’s a dark room, but he thinks there are other people. The woman with the firm voice, and the man with the soft tone. A new man, whose presence made him shudder.

“She tortured you, using the same machine she used to brainwash that bitch in the flower dress. And right now, she's probably doing the same to Agent S…”

He couldn’t hear the last word, but he knew the man was wrong.

“No. She’ll be fine.”

She had to be. She would be.

(Who was she?)

The scary man spoke again, his voice chilling. “As for you, Agent Fitz, you'll hold a very high rank, run our tech division if you volunteer. If not, you'll have no rank and a lot of pain. Of course, either way, your services will be required.”

“Shoot that one in the kneecaps.”

He slammed the door closed, breathing heavily.

He had to find her. Make sure she was okay.

(Who was she?)

There was a pool in the next room. He sat on the edge, feet in the water, and tried to slow his heart down.

A ghost of a hand brushed his knee.

“ _ Good. ‘Cause I’m not either.” _ He heard a voice (his voice?) saying.

“ _ Of course not.” _

“ _ Cause if you ever did…” _

“ _ I wouldn’t.” _

“ _ I don't know what I would do.” _ (It was the truest thing he’d ever said)

He felt, more than saw the warm smile sent his way.

“ _ You'll never have to find out.” _ (There should be a warmth in his chest. It suddenly feels cold)

He tried to reach out to whoever was next to him – but there was no one.

He heard the weeping again, but this time he thought, it might be him.


	5. In All My Dreams, Dear, You Seem to Leave Me

_ In all my dreams, dear, you seem to leave me _

_ When I awake, my poor heart pains… _

 

Sometimes he dreams of what he can feel.

A hand, holding his. Light touches on his face. A tickle of hair on his arm.

“There you go. Got you a little woolly monkey, just like you’ve always wanted.” The tickle moves as the furry thing next to him is readjusted. “He’s not much of an assistant, but he can at least keep you company.

“Never knew why you wanted a monkey assistant anyway. They wouldn’t be much help. Certainly they’re intelligent, but they lack the proper motivation and focus for scientific study. Plus, they’d distract you so much, you’d never get any work done. I can hardly handle you as it is.” The voice was teasing, but tight – as if she was one word away from shattering.

That voice makes him feel things.

The taste of properly brewed tea on his tongue (strong Earl Grey, with a splash of milk and a scoop and a half of sugar).

The smell of lavender detergent and apple shampoo.

The touch of a hand on his shoulder.

The soft press of lips to his cheek (his eyes, his temple, his forehead, everywhere but-).

He sees something in front of him. It’s cylindrical, wrapped in paper, with beautiful writing on the front.

He frowns as he picks it up. What could be-

Suddenly, he knows what’s inside. It’s the most delicious sandwich in the world. In the universe. In the  _ multiverse _ .

Prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella with homemade pesto aioli.

He realizes he’s starving. He can’t remember the last time he ate (strange, he really can’t). Ripping open the paper, stomach rumbling, mouth watering, he tries to take a bite…

And it flies out of his hand, landing out of sight with a soft ‘plop’.

At first, he can only stare in shock. His sandwich, the best sandwich ever made, was just… gone.

“What.  _ The hell. _ ”

He looked around. What hackit wanker would steal the most perfect sandwich in the galaxy? With no remorse?

Wait. If they could steal that…

He searched his pockets. The brownish-green agate he picked up in the jewel room was gone – someone had stolen that too!

He feels betrayed. Who could be so cruel, so heartless, as to steal his gem  _ and _ his sandwich?

_ Whoever he is, he’s a bloody bastard, _ He thinks viciously.

Turning to explain his outrage, he realizes no one’s there.

He’s alone.

The anger vanishes, replaced with pure, terrifying isolation.

He sits heavily, overwhelmed by the single chilling thought echoing in his mind.

He was lost.


	6. If You Come Back, And Make Me Happy

… _ So if you come back, and make me happy _

_ I'll forgive, I'll take all the blame _

 

Sometimes he dreams of equations.

Of complicated designs that seem familiar, but he somehow can’t read.

Flying orbs that shine out yellow. Fighting over which material to build them out of (triple-strength myomers – wait, had  _ she _ thought of that? No.  _ He _ was engineering, for heaven’s sake. But maybe she did. Damn it). Fighting over naming them. (Fighting with who?)

Not fighting. Discussing. Alright, bickering.

“ _ There’s no way we're calling it the night-night gun.” _

“ _ The bullets work! Nonlethal, heavy stopping power, breaks up under the subcutaneous tissue-” _

“ _ With a dose of only .1 microliters of dendrotoxin. I'm not Hermione! I can't create instant paralysis with that. You should have-” _

“ _ The bullets are hollow! It's a marvel I can keep-” _

“ _ -run the specs by me before building the molds. Or used a higher-caliber round-” _

“ _ -them from breaking apart in the chamber. Have you ever heard of physics?” _

“ _ -or read a book. It's not particularly difficult.” _

“ _ Or what's the other one? Inertia?” _

Something drops on the ground. The voices stop. The sudden silence fills up the space until he feels suffocated by it. It’s so quiet.

There should be someone else here.

Wait. There is someone else. There are two of them. Two too many. There’s not enough air.

He can do the math. He normally likes math. Likes exams. But not this math. He doesn’t want to do it, doesn’t want to calculate their odds.

But he’s already done it.

He can see the facts and numbers appear in front of him. Ambient air has a CO2 concentration of about 0.5% and oxygen concentration of about 21%. Exhaled air has a CO2 concentration of about 5% and an oxygen concentration of about 13%, so they’re simultaneously reducing the oxygen level and increasing the carbon dioxide. One person takes in roughly 6 to 7 litres of air per minute, which means that combined, they’re breathing about 13 litres per minute. Seeing as how they’re both understandably stressed, he’d estimate they’re each producing 1.7 cubic feet of CO2 an hour.

He knows how big the box is now. It’s 12 feet wide, 15 feet long, 8 feet high. 1440 cubic feet.

When the CO2 levels reach 10%, they’re effectively dead. But they’ll feel it much sooner. Probably around 3%.

It’s painfully easy to finish the equation. Time = (Volume of air in the room) x 3% / (Number of people) x (one person’s hourly production of CO2 in cubic feet).

T = (1440 x .03) / (2 x 1.7) = 43.2 / 3.4 = 12.7 hours

They were going to die in less than 13 hours.

(Who was going to die?)

He wouldn’t make it. He knew that. But maybe she could. She’s always been the stronger swimmer. (They’d bickered about that). She’d always been stronger. She had to make it.

He couldn’t live if she didn’t.

“ _ How could you do this to me? You’re my best friend!” _

He was afraid.

Not of dying.

Of living alone.

Without her.

“I need you.”

He thought he had said it, but heard the voice again.

“I need you to come back to me, Fitz. I someone to talk to, someone to work in the lab with, who can help me fix the D.W.A.R.F.S., someone who… I just need to tell you…”

He thought he heard a sniffle, then the speaker changed subjects.

“Do you remember when Agent Weaver told us we had an offer to be part of an active field team? I was so excited and proud that they had recognized our talent. I thought it’d be great to have some practical application for our work, to be out in the field together. I thought it’d be an adventure, but I never imagined…”

There was a choking sob.

“I’m so sorry, Fitz. I shouldn’t have brought us here. I shouldn’t have taken that oxygen. I should have just left you alone, where you’d be safe. And now you’re here and… I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. Just, please, come back. Please.”

As the voice faded, he only had one thought -

_ But I don’t want to be left alone… _

* * *

 

A/N: The triple-strength myomers featured here are borrowed by the wonderful “Oh, To Be Young” by notapepper, which is an amazing FitzSimmons origin story that you should all go read now.

The math in here is accurate to the best of my abilities, and if you would like to borrow my resources, just shoot me a message and I’ll send you the links. =)


	7. My Only Sunshine

_ You are my sunshine, _

_ My only sunshine… _

 

Sometimes he dreams he hears singing.

It’s low, soft, as if she was singing to herself.

But he thinks it might be for him.

It’s a sad song, but it should be a happy song. He’s always heard it as a happy song (although he can’t think of the last time he heard it), but the way it’s sung makes it sound… haunting. Heart-wrenching.

He follows the singing through twisting paths, and it leads him to the blast door. The one that’s too heavy to lift.

He tries it again, but the door doesn’t budge. He looks around for a keypad or button or something, but there’s nothing.

Sighing, he starts to walk away. He feels like he should apologize, but doesn’t know who.

“What do you think you’re doing?” An indignant voice echoes around him, causing him to jump in surprise. (It sounds like the perky voice he heard before, but more… judgey.)

“Ehm, I was just… leaving.” He explains, looking around for the source.

“You mean giving up.”

“Well, tha’s…” He was going to say ‘not true’, but whoever-she-was had caught him in the act. “It’s too heavy.” He mutters, trying not to sound like a child.

He swears he can feel the disapproving look she gives him.

“Too heavy to lift? You’re an engineer for heaven’s sake!”

Blinking, he realized he  _ was _ an engineer. (How did she know that?)

“Build something to lift it  _ for _ you!”

He winces. Not that it’s a bad idea, but he was so tired, and that door was looking thicker all the time.

“I don’t…”

“Are you a genius or aren’t you?” The disembodied voice interrupts.

“Well, I…”

“Come on! Think of Archimedes! He’s your favorite ancient scientist!”

The words came unbidden to his mind, “Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world.” (Wait, how did she know that, too?)

“There, you see? Now if he can imagine moving the world, you can certainly manage a door.”

As he cast around for an excuse, like how there was nothing to build a lever with, he spotted a giant crowbar lying nearby.

He stifles a sigh as he begins to think that this other voice might right about everything. ( _ She probably knows that, too _ , he groused internally)

The crowbar is surprisingly light, and he fits it snugly at the base of the door before realizing something.

“Oi! Miss Enthusiasm! What if there’s wolves or zombies or tornados behind this door, eh? I don’t even know what’s out there!”

There’s silence, then a part of the song he heard earlier drifts softly through the door.

“… _ my only sunshine…” _

He looks at the door, suddenly wishing the song was happier. That the singer was happier.

His invisible companion quietly speaks as the last note fades away.

“You may not remember, not yet. But you  _ know _ what’s out there.”

Staring at the ground, he finally asks, “Why should I go?”

“… _ make me happy, when skies are grey…” _

He could almost see her face flicker into view, with large, unreadable eyes.

“Because you need to.”

He starts to tell her that that was no kind of answer when he hears words from behind the door.

“ _ Please, Fitz. Come back to me. Please.” _

And he knows that he would do anything for that voice. No matter how he grumbled, or argued, or calculated the odds of ro-sham-bo, he’d let her win eventually. He’d go to the ends of the earth if she told him to, so he could damn well open a door.

Resolute, he sets the lever in place, then pushes with all his might. Straining, cursing, he’s about to give up when he feels it move. Not much, but enough. He checks the fulcrum, then shoves with every ounce of energy he has left.

Slowly, reluctantly, then all of a sudden, the door lifts up, blinding him with light.

He puts his hands up to shield his eyes from the glare – or tries to.

His arms feel like noodles, and they barely move before thumping back down into the bed.

Bed.

Where was he?

The covers are some generic blue, and he can see he’s wearing one of those embarrassing gowns that opens up the wrong way round. There’s a plastic hose underneath his nose, shooting bits of oxygen at him.

Hospital. He’s at a hospital.

He turns to the right – and stops. There’s a girl there, reading a huge book with a look of intense concentration. She looks pale, wan. Exhausted.

She glances up, as if out of habit, then meets his eyes. He blinks at her. The books drops to the floor with a resounding thud.

“ _ Fitz! _ ”


	8. You Make Me Happy

… _ You make me happy _

_ When skies are grey… _

 

She leapt up and rushed to the bed, then checked her movement suddenly.

Taking a moment to breathe, she asked gently, “H-how are you feeling?”

He tried to answer, but the sound that came out of his throat sounded like a drawer full of cutlery shoved into a disposal.

She looked concerned, then attempted a smile, “That’s – that’s alright. Some hoarseness is to expected. Your voice will heal in a bit.”

He nodded, reassured. She sounded like she knew what she was talking about.

She smiled tightly. “Do you remember who you are?”

Thinking, he was fairly sure he did. She had called him Fitz, and that sounded right (or half-right, anyway). FitzSomething? Something Fitz. L… Leo… Leonard? No. Leopold.

He could hear his mum’s voice, shouting at him.  _ “Leopold Bartholomew Fitz! Ye wee scunner, dinnae ye ken yer grandda’s coming in an hour and he’ll want to watch the match! Ye put that telly back to rights this instant!” _

The girl was still watching him, so he nodded.

Her face brightened a little. “That’s good! Self-awareness is one of the best signs for an optimistic prognosis. Now, do you…”

As the pause after her words stretched out, he looked up to see that she looked absolutely terrified.

He began to grow concerned. Had something terrible happened? Was the zombie apocalypse upon them? He knew it was a bad idea to let all those biochemists dissect dead bodies. Nothing but trouble.

She cleared her throat, then managed to speak in a small voice, “Do you know who I am?”

He stared at her, confused. Of course he knew who she was. She was…

Biochem.

Warm.

Kind.

Light.

But there was a word for all these things, a word that encapsulated everything.

What was it? Why couldn’t he remember?

As he glanced up, he saw one thing etched on her face – searing pain. She moved away from the bed as he tried to figure out what was wrong, and his pathetic attempt to catch her hand went unnoticed.

Medical personnel swarmed in at that point, forming a wall between them. They poked his feet and asked him to lift his arms and look at the blinding light and follow their finger and could he understand them and then he made his strangled goat noise for them and they all nodded and took notes. He kept trying to catch a glimpse of the girl in between the scrubs and stethoscopes, but his eyes started to droop and the nurses asked everyone to leave so he could sleep.

He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to find out why she was so hurt. As his eyes closed, he wanted to find the bloody bastard who had hurt her, and hurt them.

…

He heard voices, but he thought it might not be a dream.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” That was the pretty voice he dreamed of, who sounded so worried.

“He doesn’t remember me, Skye.” The girl’s voice sounded brittle, cracked.

“What? The man hasn’t spoken a word yet. How do you know that?”

“The way he looked at me, he - he didn’t know who I was.”

It was then he realized that he was the one who hurt her. He was the bastard.

“Hey, you listen to me. Fitz was awake for a grand total of two hours after being in a coma for four weeks. Cut the guy some slack. He’ll remember you.”

There was a moment, then she asked softly, “And what if he doesn’t?”

“That, my friend, would be impossible.”

He heard the ghost of a laugh. “We deal with the impossible every day, Skye.”

“Yeah, which is why I should know. Trust me. He’ll remember.”

…

When he woke next, he was determined to tell the sad girl that he knew her. That she was in the box. That he knew who she was.

She was sitting in the chair next to him, reading again. When he caught her eye, he made every effort to speak.

“Hey, how are you fe-” She started, but he interrupted.

“S… s…” Since when was talking so hard?

Her eyes lit up with a wild hope.

Redoubling his efforts, he finally managed, “S.. s.. sun… shine.” Exhausted, he attempted a smile. Warmth, light, comfort. That’s who she was.

But her face fell with that twisting pain again, and she looked away. He felt like cursing. Sunshine was true, but wasn’t Right. She was a different word, and he still didn’t know it.

Suddenly she stopped, then stared at him as though she was trying to solve a particularly difficult equation.

“Sunshine.” She repeated, furrowing her brows. “Do you… could you hear me singing?”

He nodded.

The tiniest glimmer of hope returned to her eyes. “Do you want me to sing it again?”

He wanted to tell her that she didn’t need to be sad. That he would find her word. That while he couldn’t quite remember, he knew her.

But he couldn’t say all that, so he nodded instead.

As she started to sing, he could feel his eyes closing.  _ Don’t worry _ , he tried to communicate telepathically (which he thinks actually used to work…),  _ I’ll find your word. I’ll find you. I will. _


	9. How Much I Love You

… _ You'll never know, dear, _

_ How much I love you… _

 

He dreams there’s a box, sitting in the sand.

He opens it and reaches in, trying to find the right word. He focuses as hard as he can, and pulls out a…

Monkey.

A yellow-tailed woolly monkey, to be precise, who grins at him and happily chitters.

“Well, I’m happy to see you too, but you’re not what I was looking for.”

The monkey hoots at him inquisitively.

“I don’ know. I just… I know it’s important.”

Nodding, the woolly monkey, who he decides to name Archimedes, scampers off. He sighs, then reaches into the box again.

First, he finds two matching cups of tea (his Early Grey with milk and a scoop and a half of sugar, hers with two squeezes of lemon).

Setting those aside, he pulls out a blue jumper that he knows is his but smells like lavender and apple and happiness.

Then there’s a high tech gun (he knows it has a cool name, but he doesn’t know what it is), and a briefcase filled with small flying robots.

He grits his teeth and tries again. This time, he hears the crinkle of paper. He slowly draws out a sandwich.  _ The _ sandwich. It has ‘Fitz’ written in a curling script, but it still looks… unfinished. Like another name should be there. Her name. He stares at it, willing the second word to appear. When it remains stubbornly blank, he growls savagely and heaves it as far as he can.

Resisting the urge to scream or weep, he hangs his head in his hands.

An insistent chatter makes him look up. The woolly monkey hands him the sandwich with a proud smirk.

“Y’ know, Archie, for an adorable monkey assistant, you’re not very helpful.”

Archie frowns at him, then grunts reproachfully and lopes off.

Sighing, he looks at the items surrounding him.

Tea.

Jumper.

Gun.

Robots.

Sandwich.

Warmth.

Light.

Life.

Sunshine.

They were all hers.

All  _ her _ .

(His?)

_ So what was her name? _

Frustrated, he runs his hands through his hair and sighs. He feels a light tapping on his shoulder and looks up to see Archie grinning at him. Hooting excitedly, the monkey drops something into his hand.

It’s a gem. Perfectly brownish-green with flecks in it.

His gem.

He stares at it, suddenly feeling like he’s so close to remembering something important. Something vital.

Struck by inspiration, he holds it to his ear.

“ _ Can you pass me the gloves?” _

“ _ Sure, here you go.” _

“ _ Why thanks. You’re such…” he waits with a goofy grin until she turns to him, “…a gem.” _

_ She shoots him a sardonic glare. “Ha. Ha. I’ll tell you something, Dr. Fitzy, that joke reached the point of diminishing returns ages ago.” _

“ _ Oh? When?” _

“ _ The first time you told it.” _

_ He pretends to be wounded until she laughs. _

A gem.

A Jem.

Jemma.

_ Jemma! _

That was it!

“Thanks Archie! Always knew having an adorable monkey assistant would pay off!” He shouts as he runs back towards the blast door, Archie waving in encouragement.

As he wakes, he can hear singing in a trembling voice.

“…make me happy, when skies are grey.”

There’s a shaking breath before she continues, “You’ll never know dear, how much I-”

The song is choked off by sobs. Hot tears slide down his hand as he finally opens his eyes to see her stroking his hand as she cries.

His mind finishes the lyric:  _ “How much I love you.” _

As he watches her, he knows that while his memories are fractured, broken, there’s one fact that his mind has been telling him all along, a fact that remains immutably true.

He loves her.

Totally. Completely. Irrevocably.

And he finally has a way to say it.

He squeezes her hand gently, then waits until she looks at him, eyes red, hair limp and mussed.

She was the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

With a small, tender smile, he speaks her word softly, lovingly.

“ _ Jemma.” _

She freezes, and he’s afraid he’s said the wrong word again. But he knows it’s right. The same way he knows that she has been etched into his very being.

“Jemma.” He repeats, trying to tell her everything in that single name.

There’s no movement from either of them, then he swears she must have teleported, because he didn’t even blink and suddenly her lips are on his.

His arms find the strength to bury themselves in her hair as he holds her as close as he possibly can.

He can feel his stubble scratching her cheeks as salty tears fall onto his face.

“I thought I’d never… I was so afraid you’d…”

He shushes her gently as she pulls the rest of her body up on the bed to curl next to him. Kissing her forehead, he says her name one more time, marveling in the sound of it.

“Jemma.”

Jemma gives him a watery smile before returning the favor.

“Fitz.” She holds his hand and whispers, “You came back to me.”

He brushes the side of her face with his free hand. “Y’askt.” He replies softly.

The corner of her mouth turns up. “You’ve gone rather Scottish.” She teases gently.

He shrugs. Perhaps he’s left with just the essence of who he is. Scottish and in love with Jemma.

He smiles. He could live with that.


End file.
